Vices & Virtues
by Vicious Virtue
Summary: After the loss of her beloved father Lady Blair swore to never consort with a man who pursues earthly pleasures that drove Lord Waldorf into the grave. Unfortunately one day she meets the rakish Lord Bass & he can't take his eyes off her. Historical 1797
1. Table of Contents

_**Disclaimer**__: The story is inspired by the author KG McAbee's example, and the character Claude belongs to her. The names of the characters belong to Gossip Girl creators. The __idea__ behind the rest of the plot and characters belongs to myself._

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**VICES AND VIRTUES**

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_Table of Contents:_

17/11 - **Chapter I: _Vices of the Past_**

17/11 - **Chapter II: _Ramifications of His Vices and Her Virtues_**

- **Chapter III: ****_Simple Virtue of Country Life_**

- **Chapter IV: _His Virtuous Intentions_**

- **Chapter V: _Vicious Liaison_**

- ******Chapter VI: _The Value of Virtue and Vice_**

- **********Chapter VII:**

- **************Chapter V III:**

- ******************Chapter IX:**

- **********************Chapter X:**

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Table of contents will be regularly updated.


	2. Historical Facts

**HISTORICAL BACKGROUNDS & FACTS:**

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**Charles Bartholomew Sackville-Bass,** b.1772

* 5th Duke of Dorset since 1794

* 2nd Viscount Sackville since 1793

* Running for Privy Councilor and Master of the Horse in the Parliament

* _Family seat Knole House, Sevenoaks, West Kent_

- 1788-1791 Oxford University

- 1791 Goes traveling

- 1792 Joins his friend Nathaniel, they travel to the colonies: Accompanied Sir John Shore (Governor–General) to the Fort of William (Bengal)

- 1793 Inherits Viscountcy from his uncle John (Jack), who is executed in France

- 1793 Returns home, reconciles with his father

- 1794 Bartholomew dies

- 1794-97 Rarely visits the family estate; takes over his father's dealings at the Parliament, running for Master of the Horse

- 1796 spring Short affair with Lady Russell

- 1797 July Meets Lady Blair Waldorf

- 1797 late July Returns to Knole House

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**Blair Cornelia (Lyttelton) Waldorf,** b. 1778

* Inherits her Scottish name _Blair_ due her mother's origins, _Cornelia_ is a family name from her father's side, and _Waldorf_ is her German ancestors' surname

* Grandparents: Vizegraf of Windsheim and Lady Cornelia Lyttelton

* Parents: 8th Viscount Cobham Harold William Lyttelton-Waldorf, Vizegraf of Windsheim and Eleanor Donetta Lady Polwarth

_* Family estate Cobham Hall, Cobham village, Kent_

- 1778-1792 grows up in Cobham village together with the Levinson brothers

- 1792 Harold's affair is exposed to his wife

- 1792-94 Blair is sent off to attend school with her friend Serena

- 1794 Returns to Cobham, reunites with Anthony and Dan

- 1795 January Harold Waldorf dies of syphilis

- 1795 March Blair is sent off to Rome with Dorota

- 1795-96 Rome

- 1797 March–July London Season

- 1797 July Meets Charles Sackville–Bass, Duke of Dorset, Viscount Sackville

- 1797 late July Returns to Cobham Hall

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**Anthony and Daniel Levinson**

* Sons of Sir Joseph and Patricia Levinson

* b.1770 Sir Anthony Levinson

* b.1773 Daniel Levinson (jurisprudence)

_* Cuxton village, Whorne's place__, Kent_

- 1786-89 Anthony at Cambridge University

- 1789 Sir Joseph dies, Anthony takes over the title

- 1789-92 Daniel at Cambridge

- 1792-93 Daniel's Law practice in London

- 1794 Daniel returns to Whorne's place

- 1794 Dan falls in love with Serena

- 1795 January Anthony morally supports the Waldorfs after Harold's death

- 1795 June Their mother passes away

- 1795 July –1797 June Anthony leaves for America

- 1795 Daniel takes over the household of Whorne's place

- 1797 June Anthony returns home to England

- 1797 August Daniel and Serena's wedding

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**Serena Celia van der Woodsen****,** b. 1777

* Honorable Miss, Dutch descent

*Family immigrated to England one generation ago

_*Luddesdown village, manor near the church_

- Grows up with Blair, Dan, Eric and Anthony

- 1792-94 Attends school with Blair

- 1794 Serena and Dan fall in love

- 1797 August marries Dan

**Eric ****William van der Woodsen** b. 1779

- 1795-98 Attends London University, studies history

- 1797 late July Returns home for his sister's wedding

- 1797 Befriends Charles Sackville–Bass, Duke of Dorset

- 1797 August leaves for London

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**Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Braybrook**, b. 1772

* 2nd son of 4th Baron Howard de Walden

_* __Family residence Audley End House, Essex_

- 1788–1791 Oxford University

- 1791 Serves in the Royal navy

- 1792 Promoted to Captain, goes to India with Charles

- 1797 August Nathaniel returns after Sir John retires from his post

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**Locations:**

_**Kent:**_

Town of Sevenoaks, _**Knole House**_ permanent residence of the Sackville family

+ 9 miles ≈ 18km north

Cobham Village, _**Cobham Hall**_ permanent residence of Viscount Cobham

+ 2 miles ≈ 4km south-east

Cuxton Village, _**Whorne's place**_ by River Medway

+ 2 miles ≈ 4km north-west

Luddesdown parish, local manor

Dover, _**Dover Castle**_

Maidstone + 35miles South

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**Fact:**

_**Morganatic mariage**_ does not exist in English law, and the British royal family and British aristocracy, while traditionally concerned with rank, often adopted a far more flexible attitude than their counterparts in many Continental European countries. [Source: W i k i p e d i a]**  
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	3. Chapter I

_**Disclaimer**__: The story is inspired by the author KG McAbee's example, and the character Claude belongs to her. The names of the characters belong to Gossip Girl creators. The __idea__ behind the rest of the plot and characters belongs to myself._

**CHAPTER I**

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_**Vices of the Past**_

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"Damn!" spat Sir Edward.

Sir Edward Balfour, his swarthy face flushing an ugly dull red, his piggish eyes flashing with ill-concealed anger, threw down his fifth losing hand in a row and snarled in the general direction of his host. The irritated baronet snatched up his glass of port, drained it to the dregs and slammed it down with a crash. The delicate Italian crystal shattered into four distinct fragments on the baize-topped table, each slivered piece giving off silvery glints in the light from the branched candelabra overhead. So quickly did the portly baronet move that the smoke-filled air about the card table eddied upward, swirling about the dozens of candles, causing them to sputter and give off even more noxious fumes in the already uncomfortably dense atmosphere of the small room.

"Damme, Dorset, how _do_ you continue to win, time after time?" Sir Edward whined sourly. A somber manservant shimmered into existence and began to silently clear away the broken glass fragments from the table, blotting at an almost invisible ruby stain with a snowy cloth.

His Grace Charles Sackville-Bass, 5th Duke of Dorset, 2nd Viscount Sackville tossed his own cards down and gazed with a crooked grin at the disconsolate baronet, but said nothing to either of his guests. His lordship's deep hazel eyes seemed almost black in the smoke-dimmed candlelight.

"It's that damned luck of the Basses," said Lord Everwood, with a high-pitched inane laugh. "Your father's English blood mixed with your mother's Spanish ancestors, distant relation to the Aragons? The old Spanish blood, ain't it, hey? The last time any Aragon failed at anything was the Armada, and even then Lord Charles' ancestor was washed ashore and married into wealth the very next day."

"Nonsense, William," drawled Charles with a look of ill-concealed disdain towards Sir Edward. "It took at least a week for Don Francisco to marry, don't ye know."

Chuck pushed back his chair and rose to his considerable height, his lanky body appearing even taller in the straightened black pantaloons that had recently become the mode, a la that arbiter of fashion, Beau Brummel. His shirtfront was a profusion of snowy frills, with a high collar around which his neckcloth was bound. His tall Hessian boots had a mellow gold-tinted gleam in the firelight. Charles sighed as he turned his back to his two guests and reached for a poker to encourage the dying fire. His lordship had regretted this private gathering for cards almost before it had begun. Sir Edward Balfour was not a pleasant person with whom to spend an evening at anything, much less something that involved any sort of gambling. William Baron Everwood, while an acquaintance of Lord Bass for some years, had a tendency to wear on the nerves of his friends after a while as well with his incessant laughter and ridiculous conversational tactics.

But the Prince had requested that Chuck would entertain Sir Edward, and one did not say no to Prinny, even as a Duke and a favourite of the said royalist. After all, Prince George would be king one day - if he didn't eat or drink himself to death before his mad father died. A very real possibility that, though it did seem to Lord Bass at times that mad King George would live longer than his dissipated son and heir.

"And your blasted family has continued to get richer every reign, I'll warrant," grumbled Balfour, as he slurped expensive port from a fresh glass presented by the Duke's Scottish manservant, with no dialect - Arthur.

Charles replaced the poker - though the thought of using it to wipe the unpleasant expression from his guest's flat face was almost irresistible, and turned to face the others. He stretched his long arms across the green marble mantle. His lean face was saturnine, his brown eyes were fixed on some distant land. Tints of reflection blazed from his dark hair as the fire sprang to renewed life.

"I take it you've had enough of cards for tonight, Sir Edward?" Chuck said in a clear cool voice.

Sir Edward harrumphed. "I'm not out of cash yet, if that's what you mean to imply." The baronet puffed up like a discontented toad.

"Well, _you_ may not be, Balfour, but that don't mean _I _ain't, damn it all," said William Everwood with another piercing laugh. "And as my tradesmen and my thieving servants have emptied my pockets until the end of the quarter when my allowance arrives, I fear that I must stop for the evening."

"Your notes are always good with me, William," drawled Chuck, with just the faintest possible emphasis on the 'your'. This obvious snub did not go unnoticed by Sir Edward. His stocky figure bristled up like a badger and his broad face suffused with choler as his sunken eyes glared at his elegant host. But at the precise instant before an outburst seemed inevitable, Chuck added with a short, curt nod, "And yours as well, of course, Sir Balfour."

Sir Edward's toad-like figure deflated and an avaricious gleam showed for a moment in his colorless eye. A gambler, and not a very good one, Lord Charles had heard that Balfour lived for nothing more than the next card game, the next toss of the dice, the next horse race or cockfight - at all of which he invariably lost. But Balfour was apparently convinced, in the way of most gamblers, that one day his efforts would not be in vain and he would assume the vast fortune to which he aspired. A fortune that he had lost a dozen times over, it was said.

"Since the baron is determined to desert us, shall we have a bit of vingt-et- un?" Sir Edward suggested as he gathered the errant pasteboards into his sweaty hands.

Chuck Bass gave an inaudible sigh and promised himself to ignore Prinny's requests from now on and that this was the last time he would cater to his prince's desires in the near future. After all, Charles was well aware of his own power in the Parliament and his role of protector of the parties supporting the Prince's possible Regency. Considering the vast amount of debts and enemies George has collected over the years, Chuck knew that the Prince counted on his companionship as a fellow debaucher, not to mention the financial support. Thanks to his deceased father Bartholomew, Charles' wealth nearly acceded that of George's. Not that he would be stupid enough to actually lend money to the irresponsible sissy, but as the Duke of Dorset Chuck _did_ manage to persuade the Parliament to pay the heir's foreign debts.

He hoped that the position as Master of the Horse was truly worth it once he got there.

"As you wish, Sir Edward," said his lordship, "but first, allow me to speed my parting guest. William, you are always welcome, you know. Do come again."

Sir Edward, his attention on the cards he was shuffling with the precision of an expert croupier, nodded absently as William Everwood bid his farewells and departed.

* * *

Charles stood on the balcony that ran outside his bedchamber on the first floor of his London townhouse. It was just after dawn and the sun was a low blazing ball that resembled the great dome of St. Paul's in size and color. Already the bustle of the coming day had begun, both without and within his house. Street vendors, their packs piled with fresh fruits and vegetables bought at Covent Gardens, or stacked with tarts baked that morning in bakeries or on their own hearths, hawked their wares in strident voices. Blushing chambermaids cast roving eyes at the stalwart forms of passing Hussars, as mud was swept and washed from steps for the coming day. Cawing blackbirds and sparrows flew to and from their nests in the towering trees of nearby Hyde Park.

Below in the belly of the townhouse a low rumble echoed. Chuck knew that fires were being coaxed into life and sleepy servants were wiping their eyes.

He sighed again. He felt tired yet restless, ready for bed, yet anxious to be doing something. He knew himself to be discontented and filled with a malaise that he could not understand. His eyes burned from being closeted in an airless room all night. His nostrils ached from too much snuff and his throat was raw from wine and spirits. He rubbed the back of his neck with one long-fingered hand. A signet gold ring, with a Family Crest, glinting on the last finger.

It has been three years now since the late Duke had passed away. The two were never close, father and son. Not since Bart's beloved Duchess bled to death on the birth-bed, the scarce remains of her blood soaking the white sheets.

Despite never having met his mother, Charles loved her, or at least the memory of her. In his reckless years of youth he was well-aware of the disappointments his scandalous behaviour brought his father. Charles guessed that Bart was ashamed of his son and of himself, because he did not manage to hold the promise he's made to his beloved wife – to raise their son into an honourable man. How could he, when he cound barely look at his heir without being reminded of Evelyn. Nevertheless, Chuck continued practicing all sorts of earthly pleasures in all parts of the world, settling down only during the holydays which he was forced to spend with his father instead of the buds at university and his latest Cher Ami, who on more than one occasion happened to be the daughter of his father's own disposables. _Keeping it in the family_ of sorts.

Upon his twenty first birthday Charles inherited the title of Viscount, as his uncle John has been executed in France. Chuck decided to finally stop running and confront his father. He went back to the British Empire after his travels abroad with his best friend Lord Nathaniel Braybrook, Captain of the navy and second son to the Baron Howard de Walden, just in time for his birthday and coming of age.

To say that the said confrontation did not go according to plan would be an understatement. When Charles stormed Knole House in the middle of the night, his father was awake, sitting in front of the fire, alone – work the farthest thing from his mind. Bartholomew was holding his late wife's miniature portrait, and remained calm as if he was expecting the prodigal son's return.

As it turned out Charles didn't have to fight for his inheritance, nor did he need to prove himself more than he already has during his travels to the colonies and Fort of William. His father had kept a close eye on him by keepting a communication with Nathaniel in secret.

That night Chuck reconciled with his father and all it took was one long honest conversation between father and son – so many ghosts evaporated and wounds healed. That night Charles finally confessed that he loved his father, and Bartholomew admitted that he kept pushing his son so that he could reach his full potential. Which he did.

_And then his father revealed that a fatal disease has taken over his body ... _

"Will milord sleep now?" asked Arthur from within the confines of the bedchamber. Chuck could hear the sound of a barely stifled yawn and his own disregard for his servant's ease struck him with a pang of dislike for himself. This dislike joined with his previous sense of malaise and he signed for the third time and shook his head.

"Go to bed, Arthur," said he absently over his shoulder. The duke leaned forward on the balustrade to better observe the display passing in the street below him.

Father and son reunited only to be separated within a year by death. Chuck spent the entire year by his father's side. Together they completed business transactions and his father showed Charles how to handle current affairs of the state and presented his son at the Parliament. Bartholomew was slowly preparing his son for taking over the role as the future Duke of Dorset. A fact Chuck was painfully aware of.

His father died peacefully with his son by his side. When Chuck woke up the following morning, he was already gone. A father's hand convering a son's.

Now leaning on the rail of the balcony the thought struck him that it would be a simple matter to cast himself over the edge and fall to his death below. Then his innate sense of humor caught hold and he laughed at the ludicrous image of him tumbling the few feet to the hard street and breaking a leg.

The sun cast gilded showers across the dusty street and picked out in high relief the figures that raced or strolled or trotted along it, as his lordship shook with silent laughter at his own fancies.

Arthur, who knew his master's moods well, laid the plain lawn nightshirt across the wide bed and turned to take him at his word.

"Arthur?" called his master before the manservant had taken more than two steps.

"Milord?" turning with an inquiring look on his thin face.

Lord Bass gave up his observation, turned and entered the bedroom, closing the French doors behind him to shut out the light and bustle without. He collapsed in a broad armchair and flung one leg over its arm.

Arthur waited, practicing the patience required of one in his position.

"I'm tired of the city," said the Lord at last, with a rueful laugh.

"Shall I make arrangements for a trip to Brussels, then, milord? Rome? Vienna?" offered the servant, these being his master's favorite places of refuge when certain moods struck him. Once, indeed, it would have been Paris, but the atrocities going on there now in the name of liberty and brotherhood had marked that great city off his list.

"No. I'm tired of_ cities_, damme, and this one in particular. The everlasting calls, the endless soirees, the constant dancing attendance on the Prince and his toady of the week. And these vapid, brainless girls that are always being presented to me at balls and suppers. Could life be any worse?"

Arthur raised one sardonic eyebrow, his narrow face carefully expressionless. "Considering the current situation in France and the many families who go to their rest in the lap of Madame la Guillotine, I would have to say 'yes', milord," he murmured in a mild and inoffensive tone, though there was a trace of grimness that infused his voice.

Chuck looked at the thin face of the man who over the years has become his most trusty employee and a friend. "My dear fellow," said his lordship, his contrition evident in every line of his body. "I did not think. You are right of course."

Arthur shook his head in a reassuring manner.

"Now, shall I begin arrangements for travel while milord sleeps?"

"No," said Charles as he began unbuttoning his shirt with a meditative air, his eyes affixed upon the middle distance. "You go to bed yourself, Arthur. We will discuss travel plans later."

The manservant turned to leave once more, then remembered one final thing and turned to remind his master. "Your Grace will remember that he promised to attend Lady Russell's supper party tonight?"

"Damn!"

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Thank you for your feedback. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint.

As this is my first story it is important to me to know what you think.

_**So please leave a comment**_


	4. Chapter II

**_AN: _**_I have received strict orders to point out that the Chuck and Blair curricle scene at the end of this chapter is taken from K.G. McAbee's novel, together with the character Claude who belongs to her. I have re-written the scene in more personal words now. I apologize for the error and/or inconvenience this caused for the idea behind this scene does not belong to me!_

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**CHAPTER II**

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******_Ramifications of His Vices and Her Virtues_**

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"Well, I refuse to go to that odious woman's house again, even if her deuced party is in my honour!"

Lady Rowley, shocked at her niece's attitude as much as at her language, said, "But, my dearest Blair, you cannot refuse to attend! It would cause the greatest of furors, you know, and Lady Christabel would never forgive you."

"As if _that_ could ever be a concern of mine," grumbled Blair, crumpling the scented invitation in her ink-stained hand and tossed it onto the carpet with an expression of utter disdain. "I have no intention of toadying to that...that _creature_. Why, did you know of her infamous reputation in London, aunt Caroline? She is as thick as thieves with that despicable gambler Sir Edward? I have no more intention of attending this gathering of hers than I have of sprouting wings and flying over the Channel to take on Bonaparte himself!"

"If you care nothing for the Waldorf name, then at least please think of the Rowleys, I beg of you."

Blair looked up somberly but still refused to accommodate her guardian that is until the overdramatic lady's eyes began to tear up. Blair spent some time in soothing her aunt, and found at the end of it, to her supreme surprise, that she had somehow contrived to promise to attend Lady Christabel's soirée anyhow. It was to give her one last taste of the _haut ton_ before her return to Kent.

That of course did not mean that she went along with the preparations smoothly.

"My dearest Blair, you _must _allow Dorota to do your hair, I vow, or you will never be ready in time, and I cannot imagine _what _your mother will say upon hearing this," muttered Lady Caroline Rowley with Blair's loyal Dorota in tow. A silver-backed brush hung from one delicate, rounded hand, shining bright against her pale green silk skirts of her mother's cousin.

Blair looked up from the book that engrossed her to the exclusion of all else - a most common affair with Lady Waldorf, as any of her friends would swear - and gave a distracted smile in the general direction of her aunt.

"Dearest aunt Caroline," Blair replied with a cheerful, mocking grin, "as I have been invited to the beautiful Lady Christabel Russell's house, no one will notice whether I _have_ hair or not, much less how it is arranged. So" turning to the maid "settle yourself, Dorota and let me finish this chapter, I pray you."

Dorota gave a sniff that spoke volumes, then waited with exaggerated patience, tapping one slippered foot on the rosy Aubusson carpet. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, warming the high room, even though two windows were open to the fresh air. _As fresh as one could expect, at least, in London, _Dorota thought with another metaphorical sniff.

Meanwhile the mistress of the house looked disapprovingly at her niece. "Dear one, as your guardian during your visit in London, I pray you listen to me. There is a vital difference between the terms _fashionably late _and _disrespectful tardiness_. Not only is this gathering in _your honour_, but also Lady Russel is a member of the ton-"

Blair snorted. "Please! Aunt you were the one who revealed to me that not only is she drowning in debt all over Europe, but the woman has been passed from man to man, to now the prince!"

"Blair Cornelia! For shame! Such things are not heard of from the mouth of a young debutante."

"But I am not one, 'tis my second season."

"A coming out in _Rome_ does not count as a proper season, it barely counts as educational. I have no idea of what your mother was thinking."

"My mother sent me off to Italy so she could mourn my father in peace." Caroline looked upon the nineteen year-old daughter of her elder cousin Eleanor, dropping the tragic subject for the time being.

"What I meant to say dear, was that despite the lady's questionable reputation, the prince approves of her and so does the Duke of Dorset. Considering his family estates in Sevenoaks bordering to yours, you must take care. We cannot insult Lord Russel's adulterous wife."

"The said royalists approve of the said coquette simply as the rumor has it that both have graced her bed. If Serena's sources are correct, the Duke passed her on to the prince over a game of cards, and the 'lady' was more than happy to oblige."

"Well, it is certainly unconventional-"

Exasperated Blair threw down her book with a disgusted facial expression. "It's _revolting_, that's what it is! I still cannot believe that you and mother would approve of an association with such people, no matter what title they may have!"

"Among, as you said, _such people_ is our future King! And this event is in _your _honour, my dear. The lady wishes to throw a soirée as a farewell before you return to Kent. And in anyway, you've only got another two days in London, and I doubt you will see any of those people again."

Blair cast a glance out the open window, where the setting sun was casting its last benevolent glow upon the great capital city, and gave a slow sad shake of her head. Some moments passed in glorious silence, as each woman was engrossed in her own thoughts.

At last, Lady Caroline patted Dorota softly on her shoulder. "There now, dearest Dorota, Blair's head is at your complete and total disposal, to do with as you will."

The maid spent some enjoyable moments running the horsehair bristles through the shining masses of dark curls, twining them about each other, jabbing hairpins in place with a determination that would have graced a general.

"It is a fascinating book, I take it, miss Blair?" she asked while maneuvering a particularly recalcitrant curl into proper position with the ease of long practice.

"Dorota, you're as little interested in books as I am in gambling."

Blair smiled at her maid and friend." A good thing for your Thomas, no doubt, you are a treasure for him about the house. Indeed, you're as useful as I am a burden to a husband."

Dorota smiled at the mention of her loyal husband, the farmer, dropping a hairpin onto the thick carpet as evidence of her delight. Then the expression on her face changed to one of concern. "But I'm sure that you'll find a man who is reasonable about your books, truly, miss Blair. Do not worry about it."

Blair laughed as she regarded her maid's intent look in the dressing table mirror. "Do not let it put you into a pother, dearest Dorota. As you know, I have all the money I'll ever need, and a husband is the _last_ thing on my list of bits and bobs to acquire."

"But, miss Blair," said the maid, stopping her ministrations in mid-stroke, "of course you must_ marry_. Why, what about children?"

"Children! Why, what about them? Useless, puling, distracting things, and besides, they'd get in the way of my studies. No offence to your little Amy of course."

Finishing her hairdressing in record time, Dorota stood back to admire her work." There, miss, I'd vow that you couldn't have received better from a professional hairdresser, be he French at that."

Blair eyed herself in the wavy glass. She knew herself to be no beauty in the current fashion, which was all for golden curls, trailing draperies and pink cheeks. Still, the dark reddish tints in her thick hair brought out answering tints in her deep brown eyes, and her pale alabaster white complexion looked well against her simple white Empire style dress, with its low cut neck, slender short silken sleeves and long trailing muslin skirt.

"Well, perhaps I'll be lucky enough to have someone to talk to at a _private_ dinner such as this, instead of these endless balls full of vapid young lords or bluff army men with ruddy faces and thick hands, all talking at the tops of their lungs about hunting and shooting."

"Why, miss Blair, have you not enjoyed your London season? It was very kind of Lord Rowley to invite us-"

"It would have been kind if him and my aunt and mother did not strive so hard to marry me of." She rose to her feet, her petite slender figure towering over the plump round form of her companion. "As you are well aware, the three of them offer me these occasional treats as a preliminary to start the bidding for my hand. It is a custom of which I am well acquainted, I assure you."

"Miss Blair, your mother is due your respect and affection, if for no other reason."

"Dorota, my father has gambled away most of his fortune, as you very well know. His obsession with gambling and other pleasures of sinful nature has come near to destroying our family's position in society and the Viscountcy, and we both know that it near drove my mother to her deathbed. And now the same woman who has suffered first hand from these atrocities is pushing me into the arms of men with same weaknesses as my dearest papá!"

Dorota watched in dismay as Blair turned away and marched across the room, to look out the open window down at the street below. She knew how much her young mistresses had changed since Lord Waldorf's death. The once happy young lady who enjoyed reveling at beautiful things and flaunting herself among the society, was now cynical and lived through her books, rather than dealing with reality.

"I'm sorry, miss Blair."

"It is of little consequence. Soon enough I'll be alone with my books and my gardens at Cobham Hall."

Dorota draped an embroidered silk shawl about Blair's shoulders and shooed her out the door.

Outside the large bedchamber, a flight of mahogany steps led down to the entryway of Lord Rowley's rented London residence. Baron and his wife stood there already, his dun-colored waistcoat tight across his portly body, his watch fob littered with seals, and his spindly legs showing to ill advantage in the tight pantaloons recently made popular by the notorious Beau Brummel.

"Well, dear niece, are you ready for your last supper party of this season?" asked her uncle gaily.

"I am, sir, and will doubtless have a delightful time, I thank you," said Blair wryly as her footman Claude, whom she had brought with her from the country, handed her into the rented carriage.

Blair settled back against the cushions, careful to give her guardians their privacy of an old married couple.

The curricle struck a pothole as Blair sighed irritated. There was a time when she thrived in society and would beg for another week in London, but ever since her beloved father's death she could not stand to look upon the people that drove him to the dark side. She could not wait for her journey back to Cobham.

* * *

Lady Christabel Russell was standing at the open door of her townhouse, chatting with two of her supper guests, all the while wondering where her favourite Duke was.

"La, lord and lady Rowley," trilled her ladyship, "how delightful to have guests who are on time, instead of so much out of the time, as is the current mode. These young dandies, you know, are notoriously late. It is quite the fashion with them. And lady Waldorf, my gest of honour, of course."

Lady Christabel's clinging Empire-styled gown of peach silk accented the profusion of golden curls - owing more to art than nature, though this made no matter to her gallant admirers. Her face was overlaid with dusting of powder, in which her French maid was wont to sprinkle gold dust, to accentuate the golden hair and the green of the lady's eyes.

The sound of a carriage driving up to the front door of the Russell townhouse rattled the cobblestones of the street. The door to a dashing curricle flew open from within and his Grace, the Duke of Dorset, his attire impeccable, his stock as high as fashion decreed, descended with an air. He cast a quick glance about him, then proceeded up the steps to Lady Christabel's open door.

A servant posted there for just this occurrence, flung open the front door even wider just as Lord Bass reached it. His lordship stepped inside with crisp decision.

"Your Grace," Lady Christabel purred as she floated languidly forward and clasped his lordship's proffered hand to her bosom. "How delightful of you to come. I haven't seen you in, la, these many months now. I am convinced that you have forgotten me," she finished with a trill of laughter that did little to hide her anger.

"Madame."

Chuck bowed and reclaimed his hand from its fragrant captor with some difficulty. He hoped Christabel was not going to be difficult. Their affair had lasted no longer than a week, over a year ago, as he had quickly grown tired of her everlasting demands and neediness. He prayed that she would be reasonable for a change and had not instead determined upon a scene. Knowing the light-skirt, he did not dare to believe it.

Lady Christabel shot him a sharp look from under her eyelashes, as if quite sure of what involved his mind. She offered him a tiny _moue_ of a flirting smile, then turned to present him to one of her male guests.

About half-way through the third (and last) course, Chuck _finally _managed to escape from his brainless dinner companion and hostess. Naturally, lady Russel, in the absence of her husband, had decided that the Duke as her former lover deserved the _honour _of playing the role of her dinner companion, much to his lordship's nuisance.

After desert was served, Charles was thankful for Christabel's admirers taking up all of her attention. For the first time that evening he had the liberty of scanning the room. He avoided conversational groups of people standing in the salon, as he was in no mood for pointless chatter. Instead the Duke was in search of a plant or some sort of container where he could pour out the rest of the ridiculously sweetened port wine in his glass. That is when he overheard the end of a hushed conversation behind the corner to the parlor connected the salon, also filled with guests.

"How frightfully elegant Lady Christabel is, to be sure, Blair," whispered lady Rowley as she stood beside her niece in the crush of people, waiting for her husband to fetch them refreshments. "One would think that she entertained the Prince of Wales, instead of some miss from the country. 'Tis a great honour indeed."

The lady's companion gave her excited relative's hand a reassuring squeeze. "She may well be called upon to entertain the prince, aunt Caroline, since she knows him quite well, I have heard. But do not excite yourself, pray, if he does deign to attend."

Lady Rowley almost squeaked, "The Prince! Oh, my dear, do you think he will come?"

Chuck observed how the young miss in question sighed and turned around, rolling her eyes, before departing to the other end of the room to stand by herself watching the view from the French windows.

As she did so Charles was taken back, nearly spilling the red wine on his white cravat. It was the brilliance of her eyes that stunned him. The young lady's appearance may not have been currently in fashion, but the beauty of her slender form was striking nonetheless.

This young miss, Blair, who he has heard was the guest of honour of the gathering, was dressed in a vanilla white flowing muslin gown, with slender sleeves he preferred over puffed ones. Her dark chestnut hair was caught up in a carefully casual bundle at her nape, and she wore a single strand of pearls. Her snowy white complexion contrasted with the dark wavy hair and the deep dark eyes. The eyes that looked almost black in the shrill light of candles, lightening up the room. Her swan-like neck and shoulders were exposed by the ingenious cut of her dress.

Before he knew what he was doing, Chuck was standing next to the beautiful petite creature, his close proximity startling the oblivious young miss.

"My lord?"

Chuck's eyes were drawn to the plump, naturally red lips. He swallowed: "My lady."

An awkward silence passed between the two as Blair shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. She quietly cleared her throat when his eyes drifted lower and lower, almost inappropriate.

"I could not help but overhear that you were looking forward to the Prince's arrival?"

The unexpected opening line made Blair blush, irritated at the intrusion. "Excuse me?"

"Why, it is just that I wanted to confirm his arrival and you seemed to be well versed in the subject."

"Oh," she sighed in relief, "I was merely pointing out Lady Russels connections and royal _acquaintances_ among the ton."

"Ah, yes." Chuck smirked, "Her connections are indeed grand. The prince and a couple of dukes."

Blair snorted, "More like her being passed down between the prince and a couple of dukes, his favourite being one of her patrons."

Impressed by the witty shameless reply, Chuck couldn't help but feeling somewhat uncomfortable and unsettled for the first time in his life. Since the death of his father and his involvement in politics, he tried to be discrete about his affairs, but now it seemed that Christabel _rectified_ that situation and even young debutantes knew of his disposables. Usually he would not care, but for some reason he wished that this particular miss (with apparently a very sharp tongue) would have remained oblivious. "His favourite?"

"Why yes, the Duke of course."

"Which duke?"

Blair looked away from lady Russel, and focused on Chuck with a glint of surprise in her eyes. "Why, the Duke of Dorset of course. Do not you know?"

"Ah."

The young age of her companion and his masculine beauty startled her when she looked closely on the man next to her. His hair was darker than hers, but his hazel eyes glittered with the candle light reflection. His broad shoulders, towering figure and air, affected Blair, and she was grateful for the dim lightening as the blood rushed to her cheeks. Usually her white complexion made it painfully obvious whenever she blushed.

"Ah? That is all you have to say?"

"Well I know of him of course, though I doubt you mentioned the name for praise."

"Praise! For what? I have heard of his family naturally, living close by" said the young woman in a low voice.

"Indeed?" asked Chuck, interested in spite of himself, as he gazed into surprisingly intelligent brown female eyes. "In what respect, pray, Miss?"

"Is he not a distant descendant of Don Francisco de Aragones, so prominent at the court of James the First?" asked Miss Waldorf, with a smile that he noticed, with the strangest thrill of delight, quite lit up her unexceptional features.

"Is he indeed," said Charles, surprised at her knowledge, and even more surprised at the unwarranted response within himself.

Not many young ladies of his acquaintance had an interest in history. He took an even closer look at this paragon. The slender beauty had a certain graceful air about her, without a doubt, but there was more. The glittering in her eyes, that struck him, was not merely candlelight, but intelligence.

Lady Christabel gave another of her signature laughs, though this one sounded a bit forced to Chuck. He looked over to his former mistress and noted that she had spotted his location in the room and was already on her way over.

"I see you have met my guest of honour, lady Blair Waldorf, daughter of late Viscount Cobham. The lady is a bluestocking, my dearest Charles," said Lady Christabel, her beautiful face suffused with the first signs of anger. "One of these educated misses, with a book always in her hand. Why, when she first called on me with her guardian lady Rowley in tow, she displayed the most fascinating ink-stained fingers that I have seen since I visited those horrid bookbinders with you, on that boring trip a year ago we took together in the spring."

Lady Christabel had managed, Chuck noticed with extreme irritation, to both disparage the young lady's tastes and inform her that he and Christabel had been intimate. 'A trip in the spring' was the current euphemism for an affair, of course, and Lord Bass suddenly wished that he had never seen Lady Christabel in his life.

But Miss Waldorf did not seem to be fazed by the remark upon Lady Russel's interruption. Instead, the young woman was to his amazement to engrossed in the subject at hand. This surprising young lady asked with interest, "Bookbinders, my lord? Not by any chance a family called Escaron who escaped from the Revolution in France? I have visited their establishment in Bath many times."

"Indeed, that is the very family," said Chuck, surprised at her knowledge yet again.

"I thought as much," said Miss Waldorf with a nod and a smug little smile. "I know them well and have acquired many of my books there."

"La, how truly fascinating," said Lady Christabel with an ill-concealed yawn. Blair frowned at the hostess. "But let us go in to the gambling room, pray. Your Grace-" she began, her hand held out to be led out, but was interrupted by lady Rowley joining her niece.

"Ah, dear lady Russel. I must regret to inform you that my husband wishes to retire."

"But of course." Christabel turned with a cruel grin towards the young miss whom she already considered a rival. "Miss Waldorf, I hope you enjoy your last days in London, and I wish you a pleasant trip."

With that the two parties separated. Blair had yet to say a thing, being led out by her aunt. She was still buffled about something the hostess mentioned. "Aunt Caroline?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you know who that young man was?" Baron Rowley laughed.

"Why my dear, have you failed your duties as a lady of the ton?" he addressed his wife.

"I merely assumed that lady Russel introduced you. And I was surprised by you calm reception and conversation with his Grace, considering your prejudices against his sort." Blair stopped and looked back to the young man in question, whose eyes were already on her. Drinking her in, his eyes burning intensely, frightening her.

"His Grace?" she asked never taking her eyes of the man.

"Why certainly, his Grace, Charles, the Duke of Dorset."

Pieces of the puzzle fell into places and Blair felt anger rising within her. In the course of mere minutes the odious man has managed to both ridicule and insult her. And now he was retreating to the card room, a room filled with sins that drove her father to the grave. With his Cher Ami, who without a doubt has given him some sort of horrible disease.

Images of revolting sexual orgies she had secretly read about in the books of Marquis de Sade, involving the hostess, the duke and the prince, made her shudder as much as _Justine_*****. As soon as she possibly could Blair turned around and went ahead of her uncle to the carriage feeling wary all the way home.

Meanwhile, Charles spent no longer than couple of minutes in the card room, before cutting the hostess and leaving the gathering. He still remembered the look that Waldorf girl gave him, while standing across the room. Obviously Lady Rowley revealed to her niece his identity, and the utter horror and disdain that shone through Blair Waldorf's blazing eyes felt insulting, but nonetheless he could not blame her for it. He knew what her opinion of his persona would be as soon as she heard his name, and he worsened the situation by ridiculing her ignorance of society.

Charles saw at once that Blair was a proud woman, and a bluestocking as such would not take an insult to her intelligence lightly. But then she was not the only one who left with wounded pride.

That look – _that look_ – she gave him. How dares she? Her, a girl of nineteen judging him, a duke currently with more power in the Parliament than the prince. Not to mention he was her senior by six whole years. Yes, he may deserve it, and Chuck never gave a damn about what people thought of him. Why should he? He was handsome, wealthy and of noble blood. Yet, the disgusted expression on her face somehow cut him to the bone.

Those velvet eyes cold as the Russian tundra…

* * *

During the mingling after supper at the Russel townhouse the hostess was fuming.

"Delightful, delightful," muttered Sir Edward as he scratched his bulbous nose with one finger, a sardonic look in his mud-colored eyes as he observed the Duke of Dorset conversing with the honoree guest.

"La, sir, I do not know how you judge what is delightful, but I confess I see nothing so here," said Lady Christabel as she seized Sir Edward's arm.

Sir Edward looked a bit askance at the fierceness of the lady's grip, but accompanied her out of the charming and intimate supper room. Lady Christabel had initiated the custom of small supper parties that consisted of from two to a dozen couples. Her innovation was the rage of the season, on nights when there was no great ball to attend or performances at the opera or theatre. In all the great houses of London, hostesses would gather discerning members of Parliament and match them with witty ladies, or rakish young lords with simpering misses, and regale them with the most expensive delicacies and the finest of wines.

After supper table tonight it was made quite obvious (to everyone but the devutante herself) that the Waldorf heiress had managed to capture the rakish duke's attention. Whether they were of the carnal or purely sadistical nature was yet to be seen. But Sir Edward was quite certain it was one of the two options, perhaps both.

Sir Edward gave the pair a look - then turned his piercing gaze upon Lady Christabel with a knowing wink.

"It appears to me, my lady, that your plans of seduction may well be nothing more than impossible," he murmured in a tone just barely audible to the woman on his arm.

Lady Christabel turned to her guest and gave him a slow smile. It was not a pretty smile. Indeed, it resembled more the snarl of some canny fox. One brilliant green eye closed in a wink.

"I have no idea of you are speaking of, sir" she said before storming of in the direction of the couple in question.

* * *

"Arthur!"

The shout rang through the three-storied townhouse, echoing from the ground floor up to the garret. In the kitchens of the huge residence, a massive woman bound up in a snowy apron, said approvingly, "'Ere now, 'is lordship's awake early today, Mister Arthur. I'd best get 'is breakfast tray laid, for he'll be sharp set this morning, to be sure."

Arthur, his narrow face suffused in good humor, set down his empty cup with a sigh of total and complete repletion. It was a remarkable thing, he often thought, how he had become so enamoured of that strange English concoction, dark sweet tea. It was now his custom, of a morning, to partake of several cups. It would never replace wine, of course, or even coffee, but it had its charms.

"Yes, milord is awake early," Arthur said as he took the last bite of a hearty slice of bread spread thickly with butter and golden honey.

Being a Scot himself, did not mean he came directly from the Highlands. No, instead he spent his young years in training for the role of a manservant of highest raking, in France, serving in the Palace of Versailles. That is where he met the Late Duke twenty years ago, serving faithfully first the father, and now the son.

The news of the Terror in Paris, left Arthur with an appreciation of a full belly that he had obtained in these previous two decades under the roof of the nobleman. Three years now since his late master passed away.

Arthur was the supreme pleasure of Cook. Never was her simple soul so filled with joy as when she was stuffing endless and enormous meals into the scrawny Scotsman, never managing to fill him up but never ceasing to try, and always taking great delight in her efforts.

"'Ere now, there's no call for you to jump up like that, Mister, not when there's still a piece of bacon and another egg there on that very table as ever was. Just you gobble them down while I fix 'is lordship's tray. I won't be a minute, or even less. Beattie!"

This last shout was for the hapless kitchen maid, who had the habit of disappearing at the most inopportune of moments. "'Ere you, Beattie! The master's toast will burn, you shiftless girl!"

Beattie raced into the vast kitchen, her rosy face even rosier this morning. Arthur surmised correctly that the milkman's boy had just delivered a fresh batch of cream and milk. Thankfully the womanizing master Charles did not have a taste for servant girls, otherwise the household situation would be quite awkward.

The manservant watched in amusement as Beattie dashed to the toasting fork over the kitchen fireplace and removed four thick slices. She slathered butter thickly onto the golden squares, done to dark brown perfection. As Beattie was at her work and Arthur was finishing the last morsels of a truly heroic breakfast, Cook was loading a heavy silver tray with marmalade, eggs, ham, a fat round teapot, cream and sugar. The toast, in its own silver rack, went on last and Arthur gazed at the offering with an appreciative nod.

"Madame Cook, a masterpiece, as is usual," he said, tossing the burly cook a smile and a kiss to his fingertips. That worthy woman, her apple cheeks gleaming in delight, giggled like a girl and dropped a curtsey, then turned to her stove with a mutter about luncheon.

Arthur seized the heavy tray and departed for his master's bedroom, up a long and difficult flight of back stairs that led from the nether regions of the house to the formal rooms.

After discreetly scratching at Lord Charles' door, Arthur elbowed his way into the room with the massive tray across his arms. He was already mentally packing his master's belongings in his mind, and was wondering whether to pack the heaviest multi-caped greatcoat or wait first to be informed as to how far north they might go and how long they would stay.

"Ah, there you are, Arthur," called his master from amidst the tumbled pillows of his great bed.

_Well_, thought Arthur to himself with a secret smile as he pushed the door to gently with his foot, _perhaps milord is less gloomy today._

The Duke sat up in his bed, his head in his hands.

_Perhaps not._

_He must have __at least decided upon_ _our route. Aye._

But, to the manservant's surprise, foreign travel was the farthest thing from Chuck's mind.

"Arthur, my dear fellow, you will not countenance it. I have met the most infuriating female."

"Indeed, milord?" said Arthur noncommittally as he positioned the tray across Chuck's knees. "I thought you were well acquainted with Lady Russel."

Chuck smirked humorlessly, "This one may be worse. An entirely different nudnik, I dare say."

He seized a knife and began unenthusiastically slathering mechanically even more butter on a piece of toast that was already dripping with it. "She is quite possibly the most uptight bluestocking I have _ever _met." The rest of the remark was unintelligible as Duke Sackville–Bass stuffed half a fried egg into his mouth and munched without much pleasure.

"And this _paragon's_ name, milord?" Arthur asked when the second half of the egg had been abandoned along with the rest of the full tray. _Apparently the woman has certainly affected master's appetite, or lack thereof._

"Blair Waldorf, Arthur, the late Viscount Cobham's daughter, with an estate near Sevenoaks no less" said Chuck, dropping his fork with a clatter upon the tray, as if the name alone had struck his fingers nerveless.

"You have not crossed paths till now, your grace. And as you rarely reside in your family seat at Knole, I doubt the lady's residence will be a cause of inconveniance in the future."

"Tell me what do you think of that name – Blair? Scottish, is it not?" The duke asked ignoring the previous comment.

"Indeed, milord, it is. A name of the most pleasant nature," replied the manservant as he drew wide the heavy brocade curtains to let in the watery morning light. "But as to romantic, the names 'Henriette' or 'Germaine' seem more so to the ear."

Lord Bass finished his cup of tea.

This young woman must indeed be _merveilleuse_. She has managed to hold the Duke's attention overnight without gracing his sheets. "And where did milord come across such a lass? Surely not at Lady Christabel's house?"

A shadow fell across Lord Bass' handsome face at the mention of that notorious lady's name. "Damme, Arthur, what was I thinking of, when I accepted Christabel? I suppose it is never a good idea to disappoint the ladies, when they have decided to _honour_ one with their charms. But in Lucifer's name, that woman is a bloodsucker."

"In any way. That simpleton of girl, has another thing coming for her."

"Sir?"

Ominously Arthur knew what his master was planning before the duke even managed to voice it. _Poor girl. _"If I am not mistaken this is a lady of gentle birth and an intelligent one judging by what you have mentioned of her interest in reading. So is it not hence natural for such as her to misjudge a member of your circle of friends, including you. Ought you not forget her and, move on to another … ehm, project?"

"What on earth are you on about?" Chuck rose from the bed, washing his hands. "Do you really think I would waste my time on an uptight debutante, who hasn't had an impure thought in her mind?"Arthur gave him a look. "Fine, I admit that I had been tempted by innocents at one time, but trust me when I say – there is nothing captivating about the half-witted light-skirts."

"Of course not, sir." The servant muttered while laying out the clothes for the day.

There was just something about her though, he admitted to himself, Chuck couldn't quite put his finger on it. Sure she was a beauty, but it was those eyes that caused his sleepless night. The disdain in those deep mysterious dark pools, the fear written all over her face when she heard his name. He could barely stand thinking about how it reminded him of his father's judgment and disappointment before their final reconciliation.

All his life women praised him and he conquered them, and then left them feeling humiliated by their satisfaction of his usage of their virtues. But _this one_… He has spoken to her for no more than a few minutes, but her witty intelligence yet innocent nature fascinated him.

Now alone in his chamber, with Arthur long gone with the tray, Chuck admitted to himself that he wanted a taste of it – her pure and honest virtuous essence that shone through knowledgable calculating, judgmental eyes. She has read so much, resulting in a sweet combination of innocence without naïveté.

He needed to see her again, how could he let her go back to the country, without having at least touched that alabaster skin on _that neck…_

_

* * *

_

"_Tshst_!" sneezed Serena.

"Do say you are not sickening for the grippe," said Blair, as she looked at her companion with some concern. "Daniel would never forgive me if I returned his betrothed to him in anything but the very best and rosiest of health."

Serena shook her head, setting the small blonde curls that escaped from either side of her bonnet to bouncing. "Not in the least, but these books are so dusty, I wonder you are able to breathe at all sometimes!"

The tiny bookstore was indeed dusty, Blair thought as she looked down at her grimy gloves in dismay. But such treasures! Her newly acquired hoard was worth a bit of dust and a few sneezes. But she knew she must think of her companion for a time now.

"Well, Serena, as you have been so kind as to trail around after me all morning, I shall now visit any shops you might wish, and be bored to distraction with the best will in the world."

The two young ladies picked their way carefully out of the bookshop to the street, where their rented curricle waited. Claude jumped down and held out his hands for the bulky package of books that Blair handed him, then stowed them carefully under his seat.

"Where to now, miss?" he asked with a cheerful grin and a tip of his battered beaver hat - a cast-off of their local vicar, Serena knew as she allowed him to assist her into the chaise. "I've heard tell that there are some very nice bookstores-"

"No bookstores, Claude." Blair laughed as she followed Serena into the open carriage and settled her skirts about her. "Miss van der Woodsen has put up with my academic addiction all morning, so she deserves a treat before we proceed to the dressmakers. A cup of chocolate would be the very thing, do you not agree?"

"Indeed, miss. Shall we return to that place you went to last week?"

"That will do nicely, Claude. But wait," she looked up, "let us go the long way round and have a drive through the park. That will help to clear the dust of the bookstore from us, though I don't doubt that the streets will be as dusty."

Claude clambered into the seat and picked up his long whip. Making a clicking noise with his tongue, he tapped his near grey mare with the tip of the whip, and the curricle pulled away into the admittedly somewhat dusty cobbled street. Claude was proud of his proficiency in finding his way about the great town of London. Though he had spent most of his short life in the country, he had been brought with Miss Waldorf each time she visited the huge city, and he knew she felt safer with her own servant driving her rather than being in the hands of some hired man.

"Blair," said Serena as they rode through the street, "you have not told me of your dinner at Lady Russel's last night. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Blair took so long to answer that Serena turned to her in dismay. "Oh, dear, what is it? Did your uncle drink too much _port_ again and tell those ridiculous anecdotes of his?"

Blair looked at her companion and gave a shake of her head. "Not in the least, Serena. In fact, I might go so far as to say that my uncle was on his best behaviour ... if I had had time to notice how he behaved, that is."

"Notice?"

"Yes," replied Blair, somewhat uncomfortable.

"Blair…"uttered her companion suspiciously. "Do tell me everything at once, I command. And how dare you hide from me secrets, when you know all my sins?"

Blair smirked: "You mean all your sinful encounters with your fiancé in the stables?"

"Blair! For shame, to treat your oldest friend so!"

Naturally Serena did not know all of Blair's secrets, especially ever since the two were separated and Blair spent a year in Italy, but her friend would be better of to remain oblivious, than to know the misfortunes that had befallen her fatherless friend, during her travels among the Latin culture.

"Spit it out Blair. What is his name?"

Blair's eyes widened. "Whose name?"

"The man who clearly kept you so preoccupied that you failed to notice your uncle ridiculing himself, as we both know he most likely did."

Serena awaited her friend's response with some concern, for instead of proclaiming the gentleman's perfect suitability for a matrimonial engagement in ringing tones, as Serena expected, Blair was unaccountably struck dumb. At last the silence had gone on too long and Serena was forced to ask, "What is it? Have you heard some hideous thing against this gentleman?"

At this Blair snorted and rolled her eyes and muttered with a sarcastic air: "Some?" Her expression irritated.

"Pray tell me."

Blair looked about her as she composed her thoughts. The lush greenness of Hyde Park rose about them, the air fresh with the scent of flowers and growing things - a pleasant relief from the stench of other parts of London.

"Blair, I am begging you..."

Blair finally relented, "I am only going to mention his name and you will question me no further on the matter."

"But, how-"

"Trust me, the name explains it all." Serena nodded. "the Duke of Dorset."

Serena's eyes widened as she looked at her friend. Blair's expression was unreadable.

The kind heart of Blair's closest friend was wounded at having to inquire on the matter. Serena knew how much Blair had adored her beloved father, how she idealized him and how she had suffered when that charming but weak man had become caught up in his lust for gambling and desires of the flesh. Harold had fallen ill with syphilis after his encounters with a French nobleman, as these intercourses were more of the intimate than social kind.

Poor Lord Waldorf's lifeless body had been battered almost beyond recognition when the disease finished him of.

Serena had often shuddered to think what would have happened to Blair and her mother Eleanor if Blair's own large fortune had not been inaccessible.

"Blair, you must not, it's not as if he will pursue you ... we have herd of his reckless reputation" Serena's comment trailed away, knowing that Blair feared all association with men such as the Duke and her late father. Serena was well aware of the reason _why _Harold has caught the disease, and mostly men with his _preferences _followed the same fate. The Duke and men of royal noble blood, preferred to have affairs with noble married women and widows, not whores on the streets. Besides, this duke was a womanizer and was in fact _very _different from Blair's father concerning the carnal preferences. However, Serena knew that it would make no difference to her friend. She despised all dandies and erotic pleasures, fearing a man's touch like the plague.

Blair shook herself and turned to smile at her companion, a rather weak smile, but a smile for all that. "Do not think on it, my dear, I pray you. We both know that the _gentleman_ in question is indeed that most horrid of creatures, and I shall doubtfully have any more to do with him. I am well aware, I assure you, of my duty and my inclinations in the matter."

"But, Blair, if you were so captivated with his presence before knowing his identity perhaps you are judging him too harshly, there are surely men who merely dabble in the sport of gambling and are not bad at heart, or-"

"Dabble! Well, dabble you may call it, but no man who participates in so despicable pastimes will ever be a part of my acquaintance. Now, let us speak no more of it. We have but two more days in London, after all, and if you're to have your _trousseau_ all finished, and I'm to take back to Cobham Hall all the books I require, then we have some intensive shopping to do yet. So let us go and drink our chocolate and get on with it, shall we?"

"_B_, I had not wished to cause you pain-" began her companion, but Blair broke into her apology.

"The subject is closed. Ah," she said in relief as the curricle drew up to the door of the chocolate and sweet shop. "Here we are at last. Claude, we shall send you out a cup, for being kind enough to wait for us, and do take care that my books do not get wet, if it decides to shower, won't you?"

"Come on Blair, I am quite famished."

Serena followed her friend into the chocolate shop. She did not like Blair's expression. There was a deep disappointment there that seemed unwarranted for such a short acquaintance with the dreadful Duke. Perhaps, Serena decided with a silent and repentant sigh, she should suggest another bookstore to restore her friend's good humor.

The chocolate being consumed and the conversation being kept strictly to dresses and shoes and the latest edition of _Punch_, Serena and Blair soon returned to the refreshed Claude and the curricle.

"Shall we go back through the park, milady, as we're returning to the dressmakers?" asked Claude with a cheerful tip of his outmoded beaver hat.

"By all means, Claude. It is the closest thing in this great city of London to our country estates, after all, which both my companion and myself miss sorely."

The day, which seemed to have threatened rain earlier, had turned off fine and clear. The horses clopped along across the paving stones with a rhythmical gait, and Claude took great pleasure in his position atop the seat of the curricle.

Serena watched her friend from under lowered lids. Blair seemed to have forgotten their previous conversation and was quite her normal self. But Serena had known Blair Waldorf for more than a dozen years and knew that she was keeping something from her. Though if it had to do with the Duke, the London visit or something else entirely, Serena could not tell. Blair has always been mysterious that way.

She scouted around in her mind for some way of broaching the subject without causing further pain to her friend.

Claude turned the curricle into a long broad pathway that snaked through Hyde Park. The park was as usual crowded wuth curricles and carriages, male and female dandies. Claude carefully worked his way through the masses trying to get out onto the street clearing at the end of the lane. Meanwhile Serena remained puzzled as to her friend's contemplating silence.

A tall young man appeared beside their curricle dressed in a riding habit of the latest mode, his voice vibrant somewhere above their heads. "Pardon me?"

Blair's posture remained stoic but her hand shot out grasping Serena's in warning, "it is he" she hissed.

His hat now in his hand, he sat the puffing stallion with the easiest of seats, "Lady Waldorf, is it not?"

Blair looked up with a solemn face and gave the barest nod of acquiescence. "Your Grace".

His smile-On quite a handsome face, thought Serena- turned into a slight smirk. "How pleasant to meet you again, and so soon too. I regret that we were not formally introduced the other evening. Quite shameful of Lady Russel, wouldn't you agree?" Serena stared as Blair dismissed the superior noble with a dismissive not. "And this charming miss is ...?"

Both Serena and the young gentleman looked at Blair, waiting for an introduction. However, realizing that none such would come Serena took the initiative.

She smiled. "I am Miss Serena van der Woodsen, Lady Waldorf's school friend and companion for this season, your Grace."

"Charles Sackville–Bass, ma'am," said the gentleman with a bow.

The curricle rolled along, kept company by the slowly prancing grey. Blair said nothing. The Duke said nothing, though Serena noted a strained smile on his face as they threaded their way through the crowd. The man couldn't take his eyes of her friend, and judging by Blair's blush and stubborn set facial expression, her friend was well aware of the young nobleman's fixation upon her. Albeit it seemed it was not welcome. At last, Serena could stand it no more.

"Blair mentioned her conversation with you last evening at Lady Russell's, your Grace."

Blair slowly turned to look at her companion, her eyes wide and glaring as she squeezed Serena's hand painfully.

"Indeed, Miss." said Lord Bass. "Your friend is the most-is a most pleasing conversationalist. In fact, I had hoped...that is, I was wondering...would you two ladies care to have a cup of tea with me, or some luncheon, or..." he looked up at Blair, who gave him no notice. "…or anything at all?"

"I thank you, your grace," said Blair, her voice as frigid as her expression, "but I do not care to spend time with those, who participate in questionable exploits. Claude, drive on."

Claude tapped the handle of his whip against the seat and the horses speeded a fraction.

Serena was extremely confused. _This _was the notorious womanizer? The man looked completely besotted with her best friend and stumbled over his own words. Wasn't he supposed to be a rake and a scoundrel?

She looked over her shoulder, to see Lord Bass, gazing after them, his face pale and melancholic.

It appears that her humble opinionated copine had unwillingly – and unwittingly – caught Lord Charles' attention. On one hand Serena felt sorry for the duke's unrequited sentiments.

On the other hand, Serena couldn't help but be on the qui vive when she got a glimpse of the Duke's true nature as his solemn expression turned into a determined one and his eyes narrowed onto Blair, before turning around and galloping away.

"Blair, how rude," remonstrated her companion. "He was an acquaintance, after all. AND a Duke residencing in _Kent_! To cut him in the street like that is dangerously near to poorly bred, and is risking your reputation in society."

"Not nearly so poorly bred as to gamble and sleep with women such as Christabel Russel, Serena in_ my _opinion, and what do I care for the ton of London, I'm leaving in a day" replied Blair with spirit. "Besides, a public rebuke may be the only way to keep him away for good, considering the distance between Cobham and Sevenoaks. Better safe than sorry."

Serena made no reply, and did not refer to the matter again as they spent the rest of the day going from shop to shop. But Serena van der Woodsen did not like the expression that she surprised in her friend's face from time to time, when Blair thought herself unobserved.

* * *

She cut him in the street! _I might __just as well throw myself from London Bridge_ if it were up to her.

Chuck stormed his house. With determined steps he approached the liquor cabinet in the parlor and filled himself a glass of Scotch Whisky. Seeing her again, was like being punched in the gut. That feeling that arose inside of his chest, it was painful yet not _entirely_ unpleasant. Something had to be done. He was sick of his own pathetic excuses. For heaven's sake _he stammered_!

"Arthur!"

"Your Grace?"

"Pack my things. Order for the house to be closed. We leave in three days."

"Am I to understand, milord, that your travel plans are on schedule then?"

"Hmm, yes." He emptied another glass.

"I will contact the travelling-"

"No." Straightening up, Chuck turned around with a familiar spark in his mischievous eyes. "Order my coach to be brought out."

"Coach, milord?" Arthur's eyes bulged out of his sculp. "You mean to travel through the continent in a coach?"

Chuck smirked: "Not exactly … " he turned to face his manservant. "I do believe you were right earlier, I _have _been absent from home for far too long."

* * *

**AN: **_Hope this chapter didn't disappoint. _

**Leave a Comment and let me know what you think**


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